It's Such a Shame That We Built a Wreck out of Me
by IconofSelfIndulgence
Summary: Meyer returns home to Charlie after the events of "White Horse Pike."


This shit had to stop happening.

Fuck Masseria. Seriously. The dago fuck caused all of this.

Meyer pressed himself into the corner of the car, trying to keep himself as far away from Joe Masseria as physically possible. He wished he would have sat with the driver, but the son of a bitch gave him a look and offered his hand out_—"After you, Mayar. You had long day, no? Come rest in the back." _So Tonino took the front seat, leaving Meyer all alone with Joe the Boss.

His palms still ached from the blisters he'd gotten from digging his own grave. He rubbed them together, hissing as he pressed upon a particularly large pocket of fluid. Honestly, he didn't know how he kept so calm, when all he wanted to do was grab the man next to him by the throat and shake him, screaming—_why did you ruin my deal why did you do this to me all I wanted was to rise up in the world and I'm done answering to you and Mr. Rothstein—_but he didn't. Instead, he closed his eyes, trying to will away the headache that pounded through his entire skull.

The car stopped.

Meyer tensed as he felt a large hand on his shoulder. A pistol suddenly pressed under his chin, and he opened his eyes to see a livid Masseria right in front of him, ready to pull the trigger. "So, how he find out, eh?"

Twice. Twice in one day? He ground his teeth together, forcing his back against the cushion, heavy breaths escaping him. Joe hated him more than Nucky did. He wouldn't be surprised if he didn't make it home to Charlie—who probably _knew_ everything right now and was pacing around the room, waiting for their safe return, hoping Meyer was in one piece…

"_Questo Ebreo cazzo…_" Meyer could smell Masseria's terrible breath. He smirked in spite of himself. How much easier it was to stand up to Masseria than it was to Nucky Thompson—even as the gun pressed harder against his skin.

"I don't know," Meyer said calmly, evenly, though he could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. It slowly rolled down the side of his face. His heart was racing in his chest. He could almost taste death. "Honestly—I don't know, Mr. Masseria. One minute everything was running smoothly, and then Eli—fucking—Thompson is there with the feds…"

"So you know nothing?" Joe the Boss growled in return. "Because if you set this up to screw me out of money—"

"I had no control over this!" Meyer said, moving in closer, his own anger flaring. "I was doing nothing but my _job_ watching the shipment! The only thing I'm guilty of is not moving those _fucks_ fast enough because we were running behind!"

Silence. That seemed to appease him enough. He moved his fat fucking hand away and put his pistol back in his pants. Meyer exhaled a slow breath, squeezing his eyes shut, wondering when it was going to be his turn bossing around people. When would he play with others' lives? When was it going to be his turn to save his subordinates from being thrown into graves?

His hands were shaking on his lap. He wasn't one to lose control of his emotions, but he'd been through fucking hell and back today. Meyer dug his fingernails into his palms, trying to relax, but then he remembered staring at the shallow grave in front of him, feeling the gun press on the back of his head—

"_Non so perché Salvatore si fida questo Ebreo._" Joe hissed.

"_Si scopa solo fino_." Tonino responded from the front.

Meyer saw red. Before Masseria could open his mouth, he spat: "_Si fida di me, perché siamo stati partner da prima che noi possiamo ricordare. Mi fido di _Charlie," He emphasized, because the man had his reasons for being called that instead of Salvatore,_ "con la mia vita, si fida di me con la sua. Se non ti piace, puoi andare a farti fottere._" He was panting, glancing angrily from Masseria to Tonino. The stunned look on their faces was priceless. He'd kept his knowledge of Italian secret from them, because he always wanted to listen to what they had to say, but he was tired with this. Tired and done with their fucking shit. So now they knew.

Masseria's surprise turned sour, but he didn't speak up. The rest of the trip was nice and quiet, and Meyer managed to get a small nap in since he hadn't slept the night before.

* * *

Charlie ran his hands over his face. He was seated in their apartment—which felt empty, cold. He knew something was wrong the moment Meyer didn't show up that night. What had happened? Did they get run off the road? But—no. Masseria had gotten a phone call from a _hyperventilating_ Meyer nearly begging for the man to come down. Meyer never sounded like that. Only once before. Only once, years ago, back in 1920 when the D'Alessio brothers fucked up with Chalky White…

This always happened when they were separate. He should have road up with them instead of staying with Petrocelli. Charlie couldn't sit anymore. He paced back and forth, his hands shaking. He was never this worried for himself—only Meyer. Meyer who was turning twenty-two so very soon, who was still so very young, so much life ahead of him. He knew it was his fault for the Masseria thing.

No. It was Petrocelli's. Fuck all of this. Why couldn't anything ever go their way? First AR, now Masseria… Everyone was fucking them over. One of these days, everyone would answer to them. He kicked the chair, knocking it over, before throwing a vase across the room—

"Hey, Charlie, what the fuck?"

Charlie rubbed a hand over his face, seething as he heard Benny's voice behind him. "Es iz nit dayn gesheft, boychik," he barked, turning his head back to him. "Clean it up." He motioned, yanking out his silver cigarette case from his pocket, promptly pulling out one and hugging it between his lips. He lit it, inhaling the nicotine, as if that would make his problems go away.

Benny gave him a scathing look before going to get a broom. He was getting too old for this bullshit, but he respected Meyer and Charlie something great… so he did as he was told.

Charlie ran his fingers through his curls, unable to keep still, waiting for the door to open, for Meyer to come back and tell him everything was okay. He wished the Tampa deal never happened. He wished Meyer hadn't been so damn ambitious—it could get them killed. Though, it was funny how heroin seemed to be the source of all his problems. Maybe they should stop with narcotics already and do something else. He blew smoke out into the living room, listening to Benny sweep up the porcelain into a garbage pail.

Masseria had left hours ago. There was no telling how long it would be when he saw Meyer again, _if_ he saw him again. He was frightened to his very core that Meyer wasn't coming home. And it was all his fault.

_No_, said that voice in the back of his head again. But Charlie shut it out, because if Meyer died because of this, he would blame himself, because he couldn't stand up to Masseria, because Charlie had dragged him into heroin in the first place.

This time he kicked the wall.

* * *

The door didn't open until much later in the evening. Charlie had already sent Benny home.

Charlie snapped up from his spot on the couch. He'd been drifting in and out of sleep, waiting still, the anger dissipating into something much more dangerous: dread, hopelessness. He hurried to the door, stopping several feel away from it when he saw Meyer's physical state.

Charlie felt as if he was having déjà vu. He could remember the same disheveled Meyer, the same empty look in his eyes as he avoided looking at Charlie's face, instead looking behind him and shoving his hands in his pockets. Luciano took a hesitant step forward. "_Ti sei fatto male?_"

Meyer nodded his head, reaching to cover the bruise on the corner of his mouth where Thompson had backhanded him. He stepped into the living room, Charlie close behind: "_Che cosa è successo?_"

It always unnerved him when Meyer wouldn't speak right away. It meant something was horribly wrong. He trailed behind him like a lost puppy, tail between his legs, waiting for him to say something, _anything_—

"Someone squealed."

Lansky's voice—shockingly—was calm. But Charlie could see the slight quiver in his hands. "What d'ya mean? Thompson knows about the heroin?"

"Yeah." Meyer sat, rubbing his hand, keeping his cheek away from Charlie's sight. "Someone apparently overheard us talking with Petrocelli. A little birdie." He stared at Charlie's shoes. "So he sent feds to get the stash with his damn brother."

"What's up with your face, eh?" He hadn't planned on that coming out of his mouth, but it had.

"I fell in the scuffle—"

"_Stronzate_."

Meyer got very quiet. He ground his teeth together, feeling the breeze in his hair as the sun shown on his face—while he stared at his _grave_ on one of the most beautiful days of the year. He could hear himself begging still, for his life, because there had been a pistol at the back of his head… He still had no real power. He exhaled a very slow breath, shaking his head slightly.

"It's all _your_ fault."

Now, Charlie hadn't expected that—especially with the venom in Meyer's tone. He took a step back, suddenly on the defensive. "The fuck you mean, Mey?"

"If – if you had listened to me when I told you that the deal was fucked, we wouldn't be in this mess with Masseria, and my deal wouldn't have gone to shit! If you had just listened to me, everything would be going as planned, and we'd be making a lot of fucking money!" Meyer was shouting. He never shouted. Something was wrong, but Charlie was getting too worked up to care right now because he was being accused.

"Oh, it's all my fault, eh? _Non riesco a crederci._ Masseria had it in for us when his two nephews ended up dead! What was I supposed to do, huh? AR basically threw me to the fucking curb, Meyer! And if I remember right, it was _you_ who fucking wanted this deal so fucking badly! How's it my fault? How's I supposed to know Petrocelli would be there?" Charlie snarled in response, hands in fists at his sides. His chest was heaving. He didn't like fighting with Meyer; they had been doing it too much.

Meyer deflated visibly, shoulders slumping. His hands were shaking at his sides. Charlie could see the bruise on his lip. It looked like he got smacked; it looked like when Charlie fucked something up at home, with his dad.

He also realized that Meyer had already known that—it wasn't his fault, nor Meyer's. It was a coincidence that they hadn't foreseen, and now they were paying for something out of their control. He watched Meyer rub his hands together and then—

A soft sob. If Charlie hadn't been looking at him, he may have not heard it. Meyer's harsh intake of breath drew him closer. "Hey," he said, much softer this time. "Hey, it's okay—" He went to touch his shoulder.

Two strong hands threw him back. Meyer glared up at him with tears brimming in his eyes. The younger was breathing heavily, trying to control his crying. "Why does this always happen to me?" He asked desperately, holding out his hands, "Why is it that every time something goes wrong, _I'm_ the one to pay for it, eh? When am I gonna get my turn? I've worked harder than any one of those bastards—" The beads fell from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, and he punched the seat next to him several times.

Charlie waited for him to still before asking again, "What happened?" He didn't dare sit next to Meyer, not right this second, not while he was like this—irate and hysterical. It worried Charlie. It worried him a lot.

Meyer thrusts his hands up, showing him the blisters. "You see these, Charlie? You see these?" He stood, holding them in front of Charlie's face, "You know what these are? You wanna know how I got them?" He was getting louder and louder. Charlie took a step back. He knew he could take Meyer in a fight, but he didn't want to. Not now. "I dug my own _grave_, Charlie! I dug my own _fucking _grave this morning!"

His blood ran cold. "What?" He asked, feeling as though he'd forgotten how to speak. "The fuck you talkin' about?"

"Nucky Thompson was going to kill me! Because we lied to him! Because we were forced to put the heroin in with his liquor, and we didn't tell him about it, and—" Meyer's fist went through the nearest wall. He pulled his hand back quickly, cursing in Yiddish under his breath. His knuckles bled. "And I don't know… I don't _know_." His voice was suddenly weak.

Charlie caught him before he dropped to the floor and held him tightly. Meyer clawed at him and sobbed, cursing him loudly, brokenly, before he reciprocated the vice grip. Charlie slowly brought them to the floor, as they had done so many times before, and cradled Meyer's head. "Shh, it's all right, Mey. You're alive. You're here. I'm here, and I'm not gonna let you go." He pressed soft kisses into his hair, rocking him back and forth.

Little Man eventually calmed, hanging limply in Lucky's grip. Charlie rubbed his back and whispered dumb, sappy shit into his ear, unsure of how else to soothe him. He smiled weakly, tears burning his own eyes. "We gotta stop doing things alone, eh? Bad stuff happens when we're apart."

Meyer glanced weakly at him. He cracked a small smile. "… You're right." He closed his eyes again and pressed his head against Charlie's chest. "I'm so tired, Charlie."

"Then let's get you to bed, Little Man."

* * *

_Translations: (I don't speak Italian or Yiddish, so I'm sorry if I messed up the grammar.)_

"Questo Ebreo cazzo…" - This fucking Jew.

"Non so perché Salvatore si fida questo Ebreo." – I don't know why Salvatore trusts this Jew.

"Si scopa solo fino." – He always fucks up.

"Si fida di me, perché siamo stati partner da prima che noi possiamo ricordare. Mi fido di Charlie con la mia vita, si fida di me con la sua. Se non ti piace, puoi andare a farti fottere." - He trusts me, because we have been partners since before we can remember. I trust Charlie with my life, he trusts me with his. If you don't like, you can go fuck yourself.

"Es iz nit dayn gesheft, boychik." – It's none of your business, boy.

"Ti sei fatto male?" – Are you hurt?

"Che cosa è successo?" – What happened?

"Stronzate." – Bullshit.

"Non riesco a crederci." – I don't believe this.


End file.
